Should My Words Be Remembered
by loun4157
Summary: I'm terrible at catchy summaries, but book 1 of a planned trilogy. Loki is back in Asgard in a luxury prison, silent to all but the not-so-simple servant girl, Astir. Thor puts her in charge of his care, worried for his brother's condition, which may be more than physical. Review please :)
1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter 1_**

_Asgard is not my home, nor will it ever be. It is too loud, too bright. Too cruel._

Pots rattle about my ears in the off-key melody of a morning as my eyes slowly flutter open to take in the dank cellars of the grandest palace in the heavens.

"You should 'ave been up hours ago, Astir!" Fridtjov, the sveinn master, scolds, his breathing hot in my face.

I try my hardest not to meet his hungry eye as I rise and slip familiar scarred brown leather slipppers onto my feet.

"Yes, master. I am sorry. Won't happen again," I say quietly.

I stare down at my lap and peek through the tangled heap of brown and red and blond to assess his mood, the answer taking form in a sharp slap.

"Every mornin'! 'Sorry, master, not again, master!' You hell-hated varlot!" he murmurs as he takes hold of my hair, pulling me off the bed and out of my small living quarters.

He lets go as he approaches the staircase, and I follow him wearily up the chilled steps, shielding my eyes from the hot light of the kitchens and looking instead to the cracked and stained stone beneath my feet as Fridtjov's clumsy footsteps clomp ahead of me. Familiar noise rises up as I enter the room: boiling and chatting, slicing and scolding, scrubbing and gossiping. It comes into view like a beehive with so many workers milling about.

A heavyset man stands over a steaming pot, barking orders at his wife as she slices vegetables on the counter near him. She smiles and does as she's told, as all good wives are expected to do, shuttling dishes from the hands of her husband to the young men next to her, who are preparing plates with breakfast pastries and drinks for the residents and guests of the palace, clanking lids onto trays as they finish.

Two women stand in the doorway to one of the many storage closets, snapping at the younger women lined up in front of them waiting for their duties. Some of them stare down at their simple green dresses, wringing their hands and their aprons as they quietly bicker, while others are still rubbing the last remnants of dream from their faces. A girl about my age flicks tumbling dark hair over her shoulder as she catches me watching them, her face slowly contorting to a smirk as she whispers at everyone within earshot what must be another joke or rumor.

Every sound of the kitchen is matched with a whisper or a murmur. This level rumbles on with staff day and night, their lips always passing along something _unbelievable, _something, _scandalous, _something bitter to the ears and sweet to the tongue. I sink into the corner to avoid being trampled or noticed again, lest I become a larger part of their scarcely quieted conversations.

My head throbs as Fridtjoy continues to waddle around the room thinking of something terrible for me to do, scratching his balding head in an attempt to move the slimy grey-brown locks to one side. His skin seems always to be burning, sweating from his labored movements and red with anger and oven heat. He wears the same brown trousers as the rest of the male workers, but his drag the ground, and his sweat stained cream shirt seems to swallow him whole.

The door I hide behind opens and my tattered gray apron hangs dejectedly on the backside. I manage to expertly pull it off the hook and around the waist of my dress in one motion, pulling a piece of midnight blue silk ribbon from a hole in the hem. The ribbon feels cool in my calloused hands, and I quickly tie the last remnant of my home on Earth around my thick hair, pulling it away from my already sweating neck.

More rattling arises over the din of the room and I know that a task has been found for me. The staff scuttles out of his way, eyeing me, as the sveinn master gets closer, a shining covered tray in his hands and a childish gleam in his beady black eyes.

"This," he sneers jovially, "goes to the tower." He shoves the tray towards me and pulls an elegant silver key on a delicate chain from his pocket. "You'll find that you'll be needing this as well, dear."

I slip the key around my neck and accept the tray as I hear the rest of the staff chuckle with him. Perfect idea- send _the human _to _his _chambers. I am Asgardian by blood just as they, but they disgrace me nonetheless, hoping perhaps that _he _will do something more than mock, for it would make excellent sport and even more wonderful gossip. I walk slowly and steadily out of the kitchen, feeling eyes on my back and knowing of the mockery that coats their lips.

Their whispers push me through still quiet marble corridors, past others carrying matching trays, and up and up the endless stair to the tower, where I am left to my thoughts and the echoes of my footsteps.

I would give anything to be back on Earth. Back home, with my father. I miss him so. His exile made him bitter to outsiders, but our simple little house rang with his laughter when we were alone. Simple, but lovely was that life. We would lay and stare at the endless night skies and he would teach me of realms unknown to that world. We could sit for hours with a pot of coffee and a book, reading to each other. He would start the mornings with the radio up, on a different station every day, and it would stay that way until dusk. But that life became lost with my father's death and Odin's guard to escort me home. Home.

"Asgard is not my home," I whisper as an unfamiliar door comes into view. "Nor will it ever be. It is too loud, too bright. Too cruel."

I shake myself free of the steely grasp of the past and collect myself, but I still cannot bring myself to open the door. _He_ is different. _I _am different. I reek of earth, of long forgotten rainclouds and dirt; music leaks from my lips, songs that would twist the ears of any Asgardian. My eyes echo a different sky, a different sun, a different life. I wish for nothing more than the book in my thin mattress floors below, for the words that will bring my earthen music back, the words that I spent a lifetime trying to remember, the words that no one else on Asgard knows.

Sun streams in from a small slit of a window behind me and warms my back, but I still shiver. The key resting on my bare skin sends chills deeper. I fret with it and begin to look for a lock on the great door, but find none. With just a touch, it breathes open into the darkened chamber of a man- though I know it unwise to call him a man- that I had hoped never to meet.

One foot in the door, then the other. How can so few steps take such courage? Shapes materialize before me as my eyes adjust to the comforting darkness. The chamber is spacious; a large fireplace stands frostily empty at one end of the room, and green curtains lined with gold reveal tall windows along one wall. A gorgeous table of some dark, unfamiliar wood sits alone in the center with a few straight-backed chairs surrounding it. Dark green couches and chairs are seen everywhere and thick curtains of the same shade enclose a bed a few feet in front of me.

I set the tray on a small table next to the bed, and my voice comes out in near whisper in the silence, "I have your meal, sir."

A pale hand parts the curtains as if it had just been waiting for me to speak, and a matching set of bare feet slowly reach for the elegant floor. A muffled rustling accompanies the opening of the curtain as an arm comes into view, a bare shoulder, little by little until a whole battered body has appeared. His raven hair almost disappears in this light, and my eyes work timidly down the face; cold blue in the eyes with deep shadows beneath, bruises and cuts from a battle not so far in the past. I stare at a man who threw himself into the abyss and came out the other side a different man- Asgard's once king, our quisling prince Loki.

A single glance tells that he has not slept, but his eyes still calculate, still analyze, and still classify his surroundings. He evaluates _me, _andI do the same. His jaw is muzzled- but I can hardly call it a muzzle. It is elegant and gruff metal, like a warning of the silver tongue it holds captive.

I finger the key around my neck. He nods knowingly and turns his chin to the left and slightly upward, never taking his eyes from mine. A small keyhole rests at the corner of his jaw, so that the key runs parallel to his face when inserted. I step tentatively and uncomfortably close, holding his stare, and place one hand gently on the device as I guide the key into the lock. With a satisfying series of clicks, it falls softly into my waiting hand. He says nothing still, just rubs his jaw, opening and closing his mouth to work out the stiffness.

"Shall I let in the dawn, sir?" I say a bit louder, still not breaking our shared gaze. Another nod, and I must turn away. I can feel his eyes on my back as I make my way toward the curtains. I tug one heavy curtain open and stare out into the blue and pink sky, a few purple clouds trailing lazily along.

"It's a beautiful morning. Full of color," I say dreamily. For just a moment, it seems as if I'm under a familiar sky. Even with a different sun, sunrises and sunsets can make one forget their place and forget their worries. But not for long.

"Beauty is all in the eyes. And yours tell me so much." I jump at Loki's voice- too close. I turn to see him right behind me, staring not into my eyes, but at the slowly changing sky. His face betrays nothing, and in his eyes lays an ominous silence.

"And what do they tell you?" I whisper, turning back to the sky.

The door to the chamber flies open before he can reply, hitting the wall with a menacing _thud._ A large man stands in the doorway, armor shining in the light and blond hair strewn over his shoulders. Thor, the next king of Asgard and hero of Earth, stands straight and tall, though he seems to be holding a great burden. There is a pain in his face, a look of betrayal; but there is also anger.

I quickly turn to face him, standing a little straighter with my hands clasped behind me back, waiting to be ordered about. He stares at Loki's back, and the pain grows deeper as his brother does not turn. Loki still stares straight past me to the open skies, a marble statue scarred by the passing of time.

"Has he spoken?" Thor turns to me, a note of hope in his voice. I open my mouth to reply, but Loki's eyes are upon me again. There is something fierce and urgent in his eyes, something threatening.

"No sir," I say obediently, looking down like a good servant girl. To look him in the eye could be too curious, too aggressive, or too defiant. I have been bruised many times for staring, but it is so difficult not to. One can learn so much from the eyes. The eyes of this brother spark with a warm ferocity, and yet they storm and rage with bewilderment and grief.

"Brother, why must you torment me so? Speak to me, Loki. To someone. I want to help you make up for your wrongdoing, but I can do nothing if you block me out." Thor speaks as if he has forgotten I am in the room. He walks forward and attempts to turn Loki by the shoulders, but in vain.

"I did what I had to. You know that. You almost destroyed the planet, Loki! I will not feel guilty for bringing you home, even when it must be for imprisonment. This is not my fault!" His voice echoes through the chamber and is met yet again with silence.

"Shall I leave you two alone, sir?" I say. I cannot stand and watch him try so disparately to bring words from Loki's mouth when they came to me so simply.

"No. If he will not speak to me, I will not stay. I just thought… he was finally alive again. But that matters not. Has he eaten?" he asks, looking for the tray.

"Not yet, sir. He has only been out of bed for a short time."

"I see. Make sure he is properly fed for once. His mind may be wasting, but I will not let his body follow. See to the healing of his wounds, and treat his jaw as well. It must ache him so," Thor lists worriedly, looking around the chamber for anything else that may be done to make his brother more comfortable.

"I will make sure he is cared for, sir. Does he have a normal servant?"

"No. His food is brought and then he is left to his own devices."

I pause for a moment- _He is left without a guard? _Loki may be a prince, but he is a war criminal and a master of magic. He could escape with ease, and who knows what he would do then? He could seek revenge on Asgard, on the Avengers. On Earth.

"Would you like me to see to it that someone is left to care for him regularly, sir?" I ask. _Someone _should be keeping watch over him.

"I must speak to the Allfather, but I fear his condition may worsen in solitude. He is my little brother no matter what he has done, and I will see to it that he is cared for. I will inform your master, and you shall stay with him for today, at least," Thor replies firmly.

"Y-yes, sir. Of course," I stammer. I cannot imagine a day in this chamber, a day of being analyzed, a day with he who could end me at any moment, but disobeying a direct order from the son of Odin could be much worse.

"Good. Thank you." He walks around his brother and steps in front of him. Somehow, Loki seems to be staring straight through him. Thor places a hand gently on his brother's face and pushes a lock of dark hair from it.

"I forgive you, Loki. I just want you home. Really home. " He stands there for a moment, his eyes finding every wound, every bruise and blemish on Loki's face, knowing that many came from his hand, his hammer. The pain drills its way deeper. He sighs softly and begins the solemn walk to the door.

"Take care of him. Take good care of him," he repeats without turning. He does not wait for me to reply, but closes the door softly behind him.

"I will," I breathe into the chilly air. "I will."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_**

_Something Here Does Not Belong_

It seems like an age passes before I can move again. I am frightened of this tower, of the man standing in front of me, and of what that man has done. But there is work to be done here, as always. I walk to the side table and take the lid off the tray, hovering a hand over the overfilled plate, only to find that it has gone cold.

"May take this back down to the kitchens, sir? I can have it heated for you." I pause as I pick up the tray, looking at his back. I do not know whether or not to expect a response; though he has already ended his silence, he has no reason to speak to me.

His eyes never stray from the window as he nods once, slightly, and I take that as permission to go. I nod back even though he cannot see it and back out of the room, closing the door softly and silently

Thor's footsteps have long since faded from the spiraled stairs, but I still listen for them as I descend. I do not want to betray him again, to see the pain of Loki's seclusion and know that I could soothe it; but I cannot bring myself to betray Loki either.

_He trusts me for no reason at all. _ My footsteps seem to pound out my thoughts and questions in a steady cadence. Does he trust me, or my fear? He trusts that I am too afraid to tell- that much is obvious. But why did I choose him? Why did I choose his trust over that of his brother? Why do I care about betraying the man who would have destroyed my home?

The sounds of the now bustling corridors bring no answers as I approach the bottom of the stair. Many of the men and women I had seen in the kitchen are headed in the same direction as I, their trays empty and their faces blank, already in the swing of another monotonous day with their masters. They smirk and giggle as they see me, whispering over their shoulders to make sure _everyone _knows where I have been.

The door to the kitchen swings open to something quite rare- quiet. There are still knives chopping, pots boiling, and people scrubbing, but the conversations seem to have died. I can practically see the hush settling over those who enter before me.

Thor stands in a corner of the room, towering over the sweating form of Fridtjoy in hushed conversation. I keep my eyes on them for as long as I can before I turn to tap one of the many cooks, a tall, stocky, irritable bald man with a thick red beard, on the shoulder.

"What do you want now, girl?" he grumbles, turning from his work on the stove to face me. He crosses his arms over his chest, squinting his watery blue eyes to get a better look at me.

"I need this food to be heated, or just a fresh plate altogether. It got cold before it could be eaten," I say quietly, trying not to draw attention to myself.

"Maybe if you moved faster…" his statement trails off as something over my shoulder catches his eye.

I turn to find Fridtjoy gesturing wildly at me in an attempt to bring me to the corner. Heads turn as I set my tray on the counter, the faces of the other workers barely controlled in their glee. They have front row seats to what will surely become the talk of the day.

"I want her," Thor states firmly as I approach, "and no one else."

"I know that he is your brother, sir, and that you wish for proper care for him, but he is still a prisoner and…the Allfather…he will not approve… he already has so much to deal with," Fridtjoy sputters, turning more red than usual as he becomes more and more flustered. He looks at everything in the room but Thor as he speaks, looking for something to drag him away.

"I will deal with my father. Loki is still your prince, prisoner or not, and his condition has already improved with her presence. Do not forget who you are speaking to before you refuse me again," Thor's voice burns and his eyes do not leave Fridtjoy, who makes the mistake of looking back.

"Are you sure it is her that you want? There are many who would be better suited, and she is my best-"

"_I want her. _She is your best nothing- your face betrays your excuses." He takes a deep breath, and Fridtjoy seems to shrink back a little, preparing himself for whatever Thor's anger might bring.

"Do not deny me this again, Fridtjoy. If these actions provoke the Allfather's anger, I will make sure that it does not fall to you. You need not be afraid." Thor's voice has softened again, his eyes calm and his temper subdued.

I can see Fridtjoy's mind working at a pace it is not used to; processing what this would mean for my daily tortures and for me. His face slowly begins to brighten as he realizes that I will be imprisoned in that tower as well, out of his hair and sufficiently miserable.

"Astir," he begins, "you are to tend to your new master, Loki, until further notice is given."

I bow low in compliance and attempt to back away, only to be stopped by a massive hand on my shoulder.

"I will escort her back to the tower," Thor says, his tone commanding and his eyes staying on my downturned face. Fridtjoy gives a stiff, halfhearted bow and stalks away to another part of the kitchen, scolding anyone within earshot and clanking dishes around in an attempt to reassert his authority.

The heavy hand drops from my shoulder and I amble back to the cook, who hands me an again hot tray with a look almost of pity on his hardened face. I smile feebly at him and mouth a _thank you _before heading back out the kitchen door, voices already rising as it swings shut behind Thor.

His long stride brings him up beside me easily, and a group of girls scrubbing the marble floors, undoubtedly those who had been mocking me this morning, gasp as we walk past. A few residents are out and about now with glowing faces and spotless robes, and their eyes curiously follow our path as well. My stomach turns at the attention that I try so hard to avoid, but Thor acts as if he doesn't notice, walking in a contemplative silence.

We enter the door to the tower stair and Thor grabs my shoulders and turns me around, leaving me staring into his flawless face.

"Loki is entirely in your hands now. He hasn't been out of bed since he was brought back- not until you appeared. He needs any strength possible, and you may be able to bring that to him. This is an arduous task for a handmaid, but I trust that you will keep the promise that you made to me," he whispers, pointing up to Loki's chambers.

I take a deep breath and a risk, staring him straight in the eyes. There is something more dangerous there than anger- hope. Though it cannot cover up my previous disloyalty, I owe him this. I need to help him, one of the last people to have any hope for Loki.

"I will do the best I can, but I can promise little," I sigh. I do not know what I can do for Loki; I don't even know what there is to be done.

"Return to him, and alert me at any change in his condition. His silence must end soon." He looks away as his voice quiets even more, "I cannot bear it." He looks to me again and straightens up, knowing he has disclosed too much. "I will send a healer up to you with medical supplies. You only need leave his side for sleep and meals."

"Thank you, sir. You need not worry. I will do my best." I do not tell him that I will keep him informed, and he doesn't notice. I bow again, and with a nod he is gone, and I am once again climbing on my own.

This climb is less fraught with guilt and fear; this is a climb of acceptance, for I have accepted my fate. Words fly about my head in my contentedness, words of home; words from songs, from poems, from late night conversations. Love songs, sad songs, happy songs. Every feeling imaginable can be contained in those words and magnified by their melodies.

I wish that I could remember them all, taste them and roll them around in my mouth. But I will have to settle for the leather bound book that I have kept so secret, full of all the words I thought worth remembering. The thought of it makes me smile; its cracked leather and stained pages falling apart from being opened and closed so many times and yet still holding my world together.

My smile fades as the large door comes into view, faded and splintered with age and neglect. I knock twice and hear no protest from inside the chamber. I look at my feet and push the door open, heading immediately to the center of the room.

I set the tray on the dining table, arranging the silverware properly and pulling out a chair. I look to Loki, who, though still standing in the same place I left him, has turned from the window. He stares amusedly at me, those eyes highlighted even more by the now plain sky.

"Your meal, sir," I say, trying my hardest to sound calm, to sound like I am happy to be here, to sound bold.

He is silent still and simply comes forward and sits in the chair, smiling as if appeasing a child. I push it in to the table and take a step back, keeping out of my new master's space while being in reach if needed.

"Please, sit," he says as he begins stuffing food in his mouth, acting as if he has been talking all along. He eats like he hasn't in weeks- although I wouldn't doubt that. The bones of his spine stick out like those of some long forgotten reptile, and his ribs show through as he guzzles down the meal. There is good reason for Thor to be worried about his health.

"That is not my place, sir," I respond tightly. He just wants to be able to see me. From here, I can observe him instead. His torso is still bare from the night, and a ghastly amount of color can be seen on his back: green, blue, black, red, and purple, all running into each other in their different stages of healing. He eats clumsily with his left hand, and his right shoulder, black with bruises, droops a bit lower than the other as he struggles to sit straight.

"May I take a look at that shoulder as you eat?" I ask in an attempt to get to work. There is much less space for conversation when doing something, and I can at least assess him while waiting for the healer.

"I don't think you're listening. I said _sit. _It is your place to obey orders, yes?" he snaps. His words become shards of glass, no longer cordial and curious, makeshift weapons looking for a weak point in my ever-thinning armor.

This time, I have no choice. I pull back a chair as far from him as possible and sit on the edge of the seat, laying my restless hands in my lap.

"There's a good girl," he says, his voice warm again with a mocking smirk. I do not merit this with an answer, not even with a look. I just stare down at the table, at the pattern of the wood grains.  
He eats in silence, and I stare at the almost perfect reflection of his face on the wood. He looks up from his meal often, examining me. I stay as still as I can, hoping that he might get bored with me, but stillness has never been my forte. My muscles seem to be coiled, waiting to spring, waiting to run. My hands tremble in my lap, and I hope that he cannot see.

I am weak, and I know that he sees it. He sees how easily I could be manipulated and toyed with. I pick one hand up and gently begin to trace the grains with a finger, gliding it across the flawless surface of the table in a fruitless effort to calm myself.

"Nervous habit, I assume?" he looks up from his plate and gestures to my hands.

"I have no reason to be nervous." I still do not look at him, lest he see the lie.

"It seems so; you do not look at me as you did before." I hear him set his fork on the table and know that I now have his complete attention.

"A simple maid is not to look her master in the eye as I did, sir, " I say plainly.

"You forget that I am but a prisoner waiting for punishment, not your master."

"This chamber may not be as grand as you are accustomed to, but prisoners do not take meals at a dining table, nor are they left with someone to tend to their needs," I say tersely, glaring at Loki's reflection. I do not tell him that he is officially my master, for I know that with my mood I will not say it kindly. If Fridtjoy could hear me speaking to a prince in this manner, especially one that I alone serve, I would be cleaning up my own blood by now.

"You surely have a human's foolish spirit in you, but you do not speak like a human," he comments casually, raising an eyebrow and examining me further.

"Because I am not," I say through gritted teeth, "Asgard is in my blood-" I stop myself short. _More than yours. _Loki's parentage was unknown to most- but being the most silent of the staff members brings forth details that would otherwise go unheard.

"In your blood…what? More than mine? Now we really get down to it. And I thought you were never going to get interesting," he muses.

I have had enough of this conversation. I stand and go to clear his dishes, still not meeting his eyes. He laughs coldly and allows me to take the tray from him.

"I am not one to give up. Don't you wonder how I knew?"

I do not wonder. I know. That mechanical mind learns from every word I speak and every movement I make; he looks to every muscle twitch, every eye movement, to tell him my deepest fears and secrets.

"But of course, you already know. You know too much, see too much, think too much. You work so hard to control your words and your eyes. You don't look at your masters because you can see straight through them, and they can tell. You see through everything and everyone. And you want to- you have a desperate, uncontrollable desire to _know._ You want to know what your eyes told me this morning?" I look up, knowing that I must. I give him a look of stone and fire.

"They told me that something here does not belong."


End file.
